Upon his grandfather's rocking chair
on the porch in the cool crisp air
sits a man with a special gift.
For he can see the soul of a tree
within a piece of wood upon his knee.
His pile of cedar gives off a sweet smell.
He picks through the pieces, eyes closed,
his touch feels what is enclosed.
As if he were to reach within the wood
by pulling it apart from its protective bark
and removing what’s inside from the dark.
The Whittler will release this soul from its cage!
Each meticulous movement of the knife in hand
is meant to bring out something so grand.
After hours of work, fingers cramping into knots
the soul held within in this piece arose
to be a magnificent fully blossomed rose.
Beautiful just like the ones his gram
planted beneath her father's old cedar tree, by hand.
Adam Hapworth, With These Hands, 12/13/2013, Image #3

Sitting Eagle
This poem is for the Poetry Soup contest:
Tell His Story
By
Ross Levan
Mach 15 2011-03-15
Sitting Eagle rests, with a tree at his back,
Playing his flute, to scare a wolf pack,
They have been hunting and following him throughout the whole night,
Escaping great peril in mother forest and sister moonlight,
He is a warrior and never gives up in fights,
But 20 wolves against one man just isn’t right,
With moccasins on feet and cowhides for pants,
He looks like a North American Indian at least at first glance,
He might be your grandfather from another time,
He might even be a grandfather of mine,
Sitting Eagle rests, with a tree at his back,
He’ll get home safe if he follows his tracks.